Suspicion of Guilt Read Online Free PDF Page A

stop."
    Patrick flipped the next-to-last will onto the rest of them. "The woman was incredible. When she was happy with me, she'd write me into her will big time. If not—well, you saw. A joke. But a quarter million? Way too sane for Aunt Althie. She thought she was always going to be around to make another joke. Aunt Althie never considered anything like a heart attack or lightning, much less falling down her stairs. Never. Trust me, I knew this woman." He sank into his chair. "It's a forgery. A brilliant, elaborately executed forgery."
    "Where's the prior will? The one leaving you fifty dollars for the ACLU?"
    "Who knows? Burned, probably. That's what she usually did."
    "All right, let's assume you're right, and the judge throws out the August will. And assume no prior original will can be found. That means Mrs. Tillett died intestate. A copy doesn't count. If there's no will, everything goes to her children. A nephew would inherit nothing. You remember enough probate law to know that."
    Patrick gave her a blank look. "What children? Rudy and Monica? They aren't Althie's kids. They were her late husband's children. I'm all she had."
    "But you called them your cousins."
    "Yes, but they aren't. They're ... what? Stepcousins."
    It took a few seconds for Gail's mind to switch tracks. "You're her only heir?"
    "Correct."
    "How much is her estate worth?"
    "I don't know exactly. Ten million? At least that."
    "Lord." Gail picked up the copy of the latest will and looked at what was printed in small type at the bottom of each page: the name of a law firm on Miami Beach. "Weissman, Woods, Merrill and Sontag," she murmured. "I know Lauren Sontag. She's running for circuit court judge in November."
    "Good for her. Her partner Alan Weissman was Aunt Althie's attorney. I'd like to know what he got for doing this."
    Gail gave a short laugh. "Alan Weissman? He's a past president of me Florida Bar. He's in the Miami Beach Chamber of Commerce."
    "Well, golly gee. I guess that makes him honest."
    "Most attorneys aren't into professional suicide, Patrick. Is Weissman handling the probate? Do you know?"
    "According to Monica, he is. The estate was filed about a week ago."
    Gail went back to the will, scanning the list of beneficiaries. The housekeeper. A gardener. The Miami Shores Presbyterian Church. The Miami City Ballet. The list went on. She was relieved not to see her mother's name. That would be another problem in advising Patrick, and there were already plenty.
    "Where are Rudy and Monica in here?"
    "Page four. They got the house and art collection."
    "That's it?"
    "It would have been too obvious if they'd given themselves everything. They got what they wanted. They have a gallery on Lincoln Road for the art. The house was in their family from way back, but R.W. had Aunt Althie's name put on the deed, so it went straight to her when he died. He left Rudy and Monica some money—a lot of it—but they've probably gone through that."
    "Didn't your aunt make any provision for them in her other wills?"
    "Yes, the collectibles and paintings that used to be their mother's. Kitsch and sofa art, to be honest about it. That was her way of getting back at them. When she married R.W., Rudy and Monica made her life hell. Mine too, when I came to live with them. Then after R.W. died, they started sucking up to her, afraid she would cut them out"
    Gail paged through the prior will. "Here she leaves her collection to the Bass Museum of Art on Miami Beach."
    "That's how she usually did it. She and R.W. traveled a good deal together—Europe, the Orient, Egypt. She would never have given it all to Rudy and Monica."
    Gail returned to the August will, curious to know who would get the leftovers—whatever property had not been specifically listed. She found it: another charity. No surprise.
    "What is this Easton Charitable Trust? Are they local?"
    Patrick shrugged. "I don't know. It's in all the wills as the residuary beneficiary. Rudy and